What the World Needs Now
by karabair
Summary: The first time he heard the name Superman, Richard White was playing fivecard stud by candlelight in the blackedout apartment that passed for a newsroom.
1. Chapter 1

The first time he heard the name "Superman," Richard White was playing five-card stud by candlelight in the blacked-out apartment that passed for a newsroom. There were seven American journalists left in the province; Federated Nations forces had left, and the nightly artillery shellings were no longer news. The seven men who stayed on – whether because their employers insisted, because they thought they could write a book about it in ten years, or (to quote certain uncles) "from sheer cussed stupid bull-pigheadedness" -- had long resigned to not making their own front pages unless a stray mortar hit the newsroom and killed them. In that case, they'd get a sidebar, praising their courage and misspelling their names.

That night, the seven squinted at their cards in the bare flame, huddled around the black market whiskey and lung-choking Russian cigarettes that served as ante. The fax machine beeped to life, and they all jumped. "We got phone lines back?" laughed Dan Tipton (_Sun City Times_ -- paunchy, drunk, avoiding the inevitable divorce back home). He was getting his ass handed to him, anyway, so he slid to the machine, and pulled the paper as it rolled off. Richard focused on his cards. He was on a hot streak. He didn't even smoke back in Metropolis, but here, cigarettes were a commodity and so they were worth having.

It wasn't until Tipton snorted and chuckled that Grant Fowler walked over and yanked the fax out of his hand.  
Fowler (gaunt, balding, covered every war since Vietnam; wrote sardonic, left-leaning dispatches that even the sardonic, left-leaning _Town Crier_ was starting to throw in the kill drawer) leaned down to scan the sheet by the green light of the fax machine's on-button, then burst into laughter. Now everybody looked up, and Tipton choked out, "Faster than a speeding bullet. . .able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. . ."

"It's a bird –" said Fowler.

"It's a plane –" said Tipton.

They met each other's eyes, then said together, "It's Superman!"

"Come on, guys." Richard tapped the pile of the cigarettes. "Your temporary insanity is not going to distract me from winning all your cancer over here." He used to worry about cancer, and high blood pressure, and emphysema; in a war zone, there were more compelling and immediate forms of death.

"Somebody's insane, buddy boy, but it ain't us. This is front page news." Fowler pulled a new sheet off the fax, and brought it over closer to the candlelight. "What the _hell_ is this guy wearing?" Ed Baxter (_American Civic Radio_, hadn't had an adequate link to file a report for three weeks) grabbed at the fax. Fowler flashed the top of the paper, which was enough to elicit a guffaw, then started to fold the sheet.

Richard had a sinking feeling about the evil grin on the other men's faces, but denial seemed like a good route for the moment. "Let me guess," he said. "More sensationalistic yellow journalism out of the _Gotham Register_? Caped Crusader not selling enough papers, so they've got to invent --"

"See for yourself, Flyboy." Fowler lifted the fax, now in the shape of an airplane, and sent it sailing at Richard's head. He managed to catch it, but half-tipped his chair in the process. He staggered to his feet – like maybe he meant to almost fall over -- and opened the fax. A scanned and resized front page of the _Daily Planet_ stared at him. _It's a bird, it's a plane . . ._ Good God, was that a cape?

Richard had to bite his lip to keep from saying, "Great Caesar's ghost!" in classic Perry-style – the guys wouldn't get it, anyway. Instead, he rubbed the giant globe on the letterhead and shook his head. "Good old Uncle Perry."

"Perry White and his one big ball," said Fowler. "Always got an eye on the important issues."

"Yeah," cracked Baxter. "Giving the reading public what they want. To pay for, that is."

"Maybe." Richard crushed the paper into his hand and walked to the window. He ran his hand over the duct tape that held the heavy black curtain to the wall. Sirens and the distant echo of gunfire sounded – miles away, but close enough to kill them, if someone had the will or lacked the aim. He thought of Metropolis with its green parks and restaurants and miles of upscale retail; he tried to remember what the hell its residents wanted saving from. "Maybe," said Richard, "it's what he thinks they need."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

2. 

The first time he heard the name "Lex Luthor," Richard was in bed with the wife of a colonel in the Provincial Liberation Army.

"We will all die soon," Marya announced, rolling off of him. "We all should fuck."

"Yes," Richard agreed, still dizzy with the rush of sex, the feeling of his joints not being connected in quite the way they should, ready to agree to anything this woman was going to say. He ran a hand through her short, shag-cut hair and leaned over to kiss her forehead. "Wait, what? Who's dying?"

Marya reached into the sheets for Richard's olive drab T-shirt, and pulled it over her head. The neckline fell loose over her shoulders, showing a sharp pale collarbone. "We," she said. "All." She repeated the same words in Russian, as though to be sure she hadn't misspoken, tacking on in English, "Cigarette?" She was asking, not offering.

Richard pulled the sheet around his waist, dug in his bag, and handed over a fresh pack he had won in last Tuesday's cardgame. Marya ripped at the plastic with her teeth. Her small breasts strained against his shirt, and he decided he would go home in his jacket. The shirt looked better on her, and if he ever did get it back, it would come marked with the smell of this room, tobacco and mothballs and the little bit of lavender water she had managed to save or scrounge. If he ever got it back, he would never wash it.

Richard rolled on his side and flicked the gold lighter that had belonged to his father. "We're all dying soon?" He wasn't too worried yet. Knowing Marya, this was probably a metaphor. She had earned a master's degree in Moscow, in American Literature. When her husband was transferred to the provinces, she had planned to teach English at the local school. The war came. Her husband joined the resistance. The schools closed. Occasionally, she took a private pupil who could pay in goods or services. He had met her in a market, trying to bargain words for milk.

She had a four year old son. She told Richard her husband was dead.

Flame cast a shadow against the wall of her bedroom. Marya touched it with her cigarette, took a drag, and let the smoke out in a lazy stream. Rolling onto her back, she announced, "That crazy lunatic man will blow us all to pieces."

Richard's pulse had just been settling, and now he felt it quicken. "Is this –" He sat up. "Marya, this is important. Is this something you heard from –" He almost choked on her husband's name, "From Sergey?" He wasn't dead. Richard knew that now, although she had waited two months to tell him. Then, only because she had to kick him out of the hourse for a week, while the man was home on leave.

"Seriozha?" Marya pushed a pillow under her shoulders and raised the cigarette. "He tells me nothing. And this is not, for you, a story." She gestured at the television across the room. "The satellite worked this afternoon. For two hours, maybe. I saw him on the Global News. He wanted some billion of dollars or he would blow up us all." She frowned. "Or maybe freeze the oceans and sell us water." Stabbing out her cigarette, she reached for another. "They make so much noise on these programs, and the television only stays a few hours. I tried to find _Melrose Place_, but this man was on every channel. Not handsome." She squeezed Richard's arm, and leaned in to peck his cheek. "Not like you."

As though she thought it might be all right for Richard to be on every television station, threatening global genocide, because his face was worth looking at. "It figures," he sighed. "We've got a Man of Steel as our hero now. The outsized villains couldn't have been far behind. Meanwhile, the real problems in the world, the complicated ones that some flying guy isn't going to be able to fix –"

"That is your favorite word," Marya interrupted, kissing him on the forehead. "Complicated."

Which was nothing he hadn't heard before. He wasn't sure it was fair that he was having to think this much, so soon after sex. "So," he said, accepting the kiss. "Who is the supervillain of the hour?"

She enunciated the name, clearly relishing the sounds, "L-l-l-lex L-l-l-luthor."

Richard got a pen and paper to make her write it down. He thought he must be hearing her wrong. When she was done, he stared at the letters in her wide cursive. "This is a name?" Like the entire story, it sounded suspicious. Exactly like something that Uncle Perry would invent if circulation were dropping.

3.

Richard slipped out of Marya's bed just after dawn, zipping the jacket over his bare chest. He tried to tiptoe through the living room, but the boy was already awake, arms around his knees on the makeshift sofabed.

"Hey, champ." Richard tried a non-threatening smile. He didn't know the first thing about children. He tried not to be around while the boy was awake.

"Reecher," said the boy, eyeing him. Richard froze. This was the first indication he had really had that Marya's son knew who he was. Shit, but this was a dangerous game.

"That's right. Hey." He squatted, and reached into his knapsack. The candy was old and crushed, still in its wrapper, melted and reshaped a dozen times, probably, before Fowler had ever gotten it to lose in a cardgame. He held it out. The boy eyed him, askance. "For you," he tried in his very speculative Russian. "Take it, Vanushka." Maybe he had gotten the diminutive wrong, or the verb, or maybe admonitions about strangers with candy crossed cultural bounds. The boy stared a while longer. Then, at last, he darted a hand out, ripped open the paper, and stuffed his face. "That's my man," said Richard

_In other words, I'm boning your mother, and I'd rather you didn't tell your possibly desperate and dangerous father. Here, have a Snickers. _ It would almost have been better -- honest, fair, and incredibly typical. There in a sentence, everything that Perry White wanted for his paper: truth, justice, and the American way.

4.

Richard turned the key and the Jeep's engine roared to life. It was the best vehicle they had been able to procure, which meant it was ancient and made a lot of noise.

Almost enough to drown out Fowler's laughter.

"She told you her husband was dead?" the older man repeated.

"I believed her," Richard answered, saying a silent prayer as he pulled on the gearshift. Everything seemed to be in order, and he navigated into the narrow street. Now all he had to do was avoid the city's numerous potholes.

"Of course you believed her," Fowler answered. "She could take one look at you and tell you would believe her. And as long as I've known you?"

He just had to avoid potholes. And chickens. And pedestrians. At least with the veteran reporter mocking him, Richard didn't have the energy to think about bombs or land mines. "She did tell me the truth."

"After two months. So you wouldn't be around when dear hubby showed up with his service revolver." He chuckled. "That was sweet. How much money have you given her?"

"Actually, I'm paying her off with cigarettes, thanks to your shitty poker skills." Before Fowler could volley back, he said, "She hasn't asked me for money. She isn't like that."

"Huh," mused Fowler. "Well that's not good. That's gonna get you killed."

"How do you figure?"

"If you were giving her money, I'd think maybe the husband knew. I'd think he was in on the game of rip off the stupid American. Way it looks now, he'll show up one night and find you in his bed and put a bullet in your brain."

"Hmm," he said. "You think I'll still get a sidebar in the _Planet_?"

"Daddy dearest will name a journalism award after you. But you won't be in any position to appreciate it. Because like I said, the man's going to kill you. Maybe her too. Maybe the kid for good measure."

Richard stared at the road. "That's not funny."

"It wasn't a joke."

"You've been doing this too long."

"It's your funeral." They drove a while in silence.

"So," said Richard. "Marya says some nutjob named Lance Lexor has nuclear missiles aimed at California."

"Old news, my friend," said Fowler. "Superman stopped them."

"Huh." Richard slowed the vehicle as they approached a barricade. Reaching into the flak jacket for his press identification, he mused, "How come a guy like that's never around when you could use him?"

TBC


End file.
